


Cure

by alternatealto



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, NC-17, Overdone memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatealto/pseuds/alternatealto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious old man gives Wilson something, with far-reaching consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cure

 

 

By the time he’d said, “It will _what?_   No!  I couldn’t do that!”  Wilson knew it was too late.  Some deeper part of him had already agreed, had signed on the dotted line, and was just waiting for the rest of him to catch up. 

“Look.”  The old man stared into Wilson’s eyes, his dark gaze compelling.  “I was sent to offer this to one person, and one only.  I chose you, and I’m not about to explain how or why.  It will do what I said it will do – _everything_ I said it will do.  It will only be beneficial.  It won’t harm you.” 

“What about _him?_ ”  Wilson replied, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. 

“It won’t hurt him, either.  There would be no point to it if it did.  In fact, he’ll find it beneficial, too.” 

“How, exactly?  He . . . he’s in constant pain,”  Wilson said, “will this help with that?” 

“You need to take it for yourself, not for him.  And he needs to take it for you, not for himself,” the old man said sternly.  The bushy white eyebrows drew together. “I can’t stay much longer.”  He held up the bottle again.  “Yes, or no?” 

“There’s no point,” Wilson told him.  “He won’t go along with it; he doesn’t believe in magic.” 

“ ‘Magic’ is only science that hasn’t happened yet,” the old man replied.  “You can tell him that for me.  Choose.” 

“I . . . all right.”  He took the bottle, surprised at the weight of it.  “How much is in this?” 

“Enough.”  The stern look in the old man’s brown eyes had softened to a smile.  “Thank you,” he added, quietly. 

“So . . . what now?”  Wilson looked down at the heavy black bottle in his hand, feeling slightly ridiculous and a little nervous.  “Do I sign my soul over to you, or something?”  

That drew a soft chuckle.  “No.  Believe me, I don’t need it.  Taking the bottle was enough.  Remember, two drops in each glass, no more.  Take it every night before bed until the effect is fully established.  It should take about six months, after that you can just use it as often as you think you need it.  Oh, and tell him not to bother trying to analyze it; he won’t be able to.” 

“You sound like you know him,” Wilson said, surprised.  

“Do I?”  There was something a little disquieting about the smile the old man gave over his shoulder as he turned to leave.  

“Wait!” Wilson blurted.  “I’m still not really clear on what _he’s_ supposed to do.” 

“It will be obvious fairly quickly.”  The old man was walking away at an increasingly brisk pace, long white hair and beard fluttering. 

“But how will I know if it works?” Wilson called after him. 

“You’ll know.”  The old man turned a corner and was gone.  Wilson stood on the sidewalk outside the guitar shop, holding the bottle and staring after him. 

“I can’t leave you alone for five seconds,” House grumbled as he came out the door.  “Who was the geezer, and why are you buying bottles of god-knows-what from someone old enough to be your grandfather?” 

“I didn’t buy it,” Wilson answered reflexively, “he gave it to me.” 

“Okay, why are you _accepting_ bottles of god-knows-what from someone old enough to be your grandfather?”  House was already busy securing his new purchase to the back of his bike. 

“I’ll tell you later – and wait a minute, I thought you went in there to buy a guitar?” 

“Nope.  Too big, too hard to haul around on the bike.  I went for something smaller and _far_ more annoying.”  He smiled evilly at Wilson.  “It’s a ukelele.” 

Wilson gave the obligatory eye-roll, but smiled to himself as he carefully tucked the bottle into one of his saddlebags. 

*****

 

“Say that _again?_ ”  House demanded as they sat in their motel room after dinner; then, without giving Wilson time to reply, he said, “You actually _believed_ something like that?” 

“I –”  Wilson rubbed at his chest.  House’s voice gentled a little, but he kept on ranting. 

“You, a respected oncologist, refuse the best possible conventional treatment for a cancer with a better than 80 percent remission rate – ” 

“Because it’s now clear I’m in the 20 percent –” 

“– and when some old guy tells you, ‘Drink this, it’ll cure you!’, you believe him without further evidence, and now you expect _me_ to believe this?” 

“He . . . that wasn’t what he said.” 

“No, what he said was even more insane than that, wasn’t it?  We’re _both_ supposed to drink this stuff, and then it’s somehow going to turn _me_ into a treatment for the cancer that’s obviously spread to your _brain_ , because you wouldn’t believe any of this crap if you were in your right mind.” 

Wilson stared at the floor, running his thumb over the top of the bottle.  “It . . . I wish you could have heard him.  I know it sounds crazy now, but – ” 

“It would have sounded crazy then, too.” 

“I still want to try it.” 

House’s expression went from annoyed to slightly sad.  “Wilson . . .”  He took a deep breath.  “Look.  I know it’s getting worse – you think I haven’t noticed you slowing down a little more each day?  You’re coughing more; you keep rubbing your chest when you think I’m not looking.  It’s . . . you can’t ignore it any more.  We can’t keep pretending.” 

House’s voice had gone soft and uneven.  Wilson couldn’t make himself look up.

“But magical thinking isn’t going to make it go away,” House went on relentlessly.  “There’s no such thing as a magic potion for this.” 

“ ‘Magic is only science that hasn’t happened yet’,” Wilson quoted.  “He said to tell you that for him.” 

House stood up abruptly, limping across the room to throw himself onto his bed, face turned away.  “Bullshit in fancy words is still bullshit.” 

“House.  What harm could two drops in a glass of water do?” 

“There are plenty of substances where two drops are more than enough to _do_ you in!” House retorted. 

“I’ll let you examine it first, okay?” 

“Wilson . . .” 

“House . . . _please?_ ”  He hadn’t really _meant_ to put that catch in his voice; it was unfair because he knew the effect it would have on the other man, and he knew House knew it as well.  He felt guilty when House sat up abruptly, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“Okay.  Okay, you bastard.  Give me the damned bottle.”  Wilson handed it over silently.

House undid the fancy little metal clamp that secured the top and pulled it away from the rim.  He sniffed cautiously, then got up and went to the sink in the small alcove next to the bathroom for one of the plastic water cups there.  Carefully, he dribbled a small amount of liquid from the bottle into the cup and looked at it. 

“No smell; it’s clear, it’s not viscous or muddy,” he announced.  He pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and dipped a corner into the liquid.  “If it’s an acid or a base, it’s not strong enough to affect either the cup or the paper; there’s no discoloration.  Based on what I can see, it looks like water with blue food coloring.” 

“So it’s harmless,” Wilson said.  He had followed the other man to the sink, watching intently. 

“I didn’t say that.  I can’t tell whether it’s harmless or not, just that there’s nothing immediately obviously bad about it.” 

“I’m trying it,” Wilson said, his tone determined. 

“Suit yourself,” House said wearily.  He poured the liquid from the cup back into the bottle and gave the bottle to Wilson. 

“We both have to drink it, or it won’t work.  His instructions were very clear on that.”

Wilson took the cup and rinsed it out, then pulled the plastic wrapper off another one. 

“No.”  House was limping back over to the bed, where he sat rubbing at his thigh with a grimace.  “You can drink it; I’m taking a Vicodin and going to bed.” 

Wilson carefully measured two drops of the bluish water into each cup before filling them both at the tap and securely re-capping the bottle.  He came over and handed a cup to House.  “Take it with this,” he suggested. 

“You’re nuts.  Also, you’re not listening.  _Also_ also, I’m not drinking that.” 

“I’ll drink mine first,” Wilson offered.  “We’ll give it ten minutes, and if nothing happens you can drink yours.” 

“If nothing happens, there won’t be any point to drinking mine,” House retorted.  But he made no further protests as Wilson downed his cupful, just watched him intently for the first two or three minutes, then seemed to lose interest as nothing happened.  

“Well, we know it doesn’t turn you into a frog, at least,” he announced at the end of the specified time.  “How do you feel?” 

“No change,”  Wilson replied.  “Your turn.” 

“No.” 

“That’s all you’re going to say?” 

“It’s all I need to say.  ‘No’ is a complete sentence.” 

“So is, ‘please?’” Wilson responded.  He put as much hopeful pleading into his expression as he could. 

House growled, popped a Vicodin tablet into his mouth and washed it down with the liquid in his cup.  Then he got up and rooted around in the saddlebags for his sleep shirt.  “Now that we’ve had our little exercise in futility,  I’m going to bed,” he announced.  He pulled off his shirt, kicked his shoes off and was about to unzip his jeans when he suddenly swayed.  “Whoa . . . did you turn off the AC in here?  It’s really warm all of a sudden.” 

“No,” Wilson answered.  He was staring openly at House, feeling a kind of relaxing tingle spread through his own body as he looked at the other man’s.  

“Then it must be the stuff we just drank.  Ohhh . . .”  House tilted his head back and groaned softly.  “Yeah . . . must be . . . hallucinogenic.  Takes effect fast . . .  I . . . oh, god, this feels good.”  He hooked his thumbs into the top of his jeans, his head falling back even farther, exposing the long line of his throat, and groaned again.  

“You’re glowing,” Wilson told him, mesmerized.  He could see the soft sheen of perspiration on House’s skin, reflecting the low light from the bedside lamps. 

“I’m _hot._ ”  House’s hands moved to his fly; he opened it quickly and pulled the jeans off, kicking them carelessly aside, apparently not caring whether or not he exposed the scar on his leg. 

“God, yes, you are . . .” Wilson breathed.  The tingle was getting stronger; his clothes suddenly felt tight and uncomfortable, and he couldn’t stop staring at House, who was standing between their beds, running his hands over his own chest, his eyes heavy-lidded. 

“I told you . . . told you I couldn’t be sure it was safe,” House said.  His voice trailed away into a sigh as the fingers of one hand found a nipple and played with it delicately. 

“You look . . . good,” Wilson said, irrelevantly. “God, House, you look so good.  I – ”

He broke off as House stepped up to him, pushing playfully at his shoulder.  

“You,” House announced, “are wearing too many clothes, do you know that?”  He was swaying again, but not as if he were drunk or unbalanced.  It was a sensual motion, brushing his nude body against Wilson’s clothed one.  Wilson reached for the hem of his own shirt and pulled it over his head.  Then the two of them were suddenly chest to chest, House’s blue eyes looking at him with unfeigned desire, House’s lips parted in open invitation.  “Still too many clothes,” he breathed as their mouths met.   It was the last coherent thing he said for quite some time.  

Once the kiss started, Wilson discovered, he couldn’t bring himself to stop it.  The more deeply he kissed the other man, the more deeply he wanted to kiss him.  House was delicious, the taste of his mouth seeming to satisfy some kind of deep craving in Wilson.  And it wasn’t as if House was making any effort to stop him:  instead, he seemed to get more and more pliant in Wilson’s arms as the kiss went on, moaning wantonly as Wilson’s tongue found his and twined around it.  Some far-distant part of Wilson felt guilty – he was taking advantage of House, who was clearly under the influence of the drug – but he still kept devouring the other man’s mouth, kept running his hands over the muscled shoulders and back, as they kissed and kissed.  

Then House made an impatient noise in his throat and tugged urgently at the waistband of Wilson’s jeans before opening the fly and shoving jeans and briefs down.  Wilson kicked free of them, still kissing, still plunging his tongue as deeply as he could into House’s mouth, unsurprised and unashamed to find he was hardening rapidly, that they both were.  House’s body, warm and slick with sweat, was the most incredible thing he’d ever felt in his life.  He finally managed to pull his lips away from the other man’s to mouth at his neck and throat, and House responded with a long, keening moan, his hands coming up to hold Wilson’s head in place as Wilson licked and nibbled and sucked there.  

Everything, every part of the man in his arms was delicious, Wilson realized.  He wanted nothing more than to devour him whole, and House seemed enthusiastically in favor of being devoured.  Wilson’s kisses roamed over House’s neck and shoulders, he bit and sucked and licked, reveling in the varied tastes of the man, now salty, now musky, always heady and incredible.  House gasped and sighed, moaned and made other sounds that could only be interpreted as pleasure.  He could hardly seem to let Wilson lift his head enough to breathe at times, clutching Wilson to him and running his fingers through Wilson’s hair as the kisses moved down his chest. 

When standing up started to become awkward, Wilson pushed a little, and House let go and fell back onto the bed behind him, laughing breathlessly as he bounced.  He reached greedily to pull Wilson down on top of him, and they laughed together through more shared kisses, until House shimmied up the bed a bit and arched his back, cupping a hand below one nipple to show what he wanted now.  Wilson eagerly latched on, swirling his tongue around the tiny hard point, sucking nipple and aurole completely into his mouth.  The intensity of the taste was more than enough reward, even without the soft mewling noises House was making, or the way he shifted from side to side to get Wilson to nurse at the other nipple, too.   For what seemed like ages, Wilson alternated between the two, occasionally stopping to lick the sweat from between House’s pectoral muscles, while House wailed and pawed at him for more. 

Then, to Wilson’s surprise, he felt House’s hands suddenly grab his head and pull it up, away from the nipple he’d been lavishing attention on.  Confused, he looked at the other man, wondering dimly why House was stopping him this way, until House, staring at him intently, thrust up hard with his hips, rubbing the leaking tip of his cock along the inside of Wilson’s thigh.  Wilson gasped at the wet, slick sensation, and House did it again, harder, his eyes wild, then lifted a hand to push at Wilson’s shoulder, and Wilson moved immediately down his lover’s body to take what they both wanted so much.  

As his mouth found House’s wet tip, Wilson discovered that everything else had been the appetizer.  _This_ was the main course, a taste that increased his craving exponentially, while at the same time being indescribably satisfying.  He licked, he sucked, he took the other man into his mouth and down his throat, hearing House sob, feeling House’s fingers twine into his hair and pull, riding the waves of House’s helpless thrusting.  He wrapped his right hand around House’s shaft and used his left to play softly with the warm sac beneath it, rewarded by the sweet sounds the man made and the even sweeter taste of him. When House went rigid, quivering, then gave a full-throated cry, Wilson drank eagerly until the rich, hot fountain ceased to spurt, then lay panting, with his head pillowed on the other man’s hip.  

He had barely noticed his own orgasm, although it had obviously happened.  He’d have to get up and deal with that in a minute, but for now he was content to just lie here.  His eyes drifted shut as the relaxing warmth of afterglow spread through him, cushioning him against the guilt he should probably be feeling for what he’d just done with – _to_ – his best friend.  He hadn’t expected the “medicine” in the bottle to be a damned aphrodisiac, so there was no way he could have warned House, but still . . . _what_ an aphrodisiac it had been . . . just thinking about it was making him feel almost as if he could go for another round. 

The thought had only just crossed his mind when he heard House moan softly and felt him reach down to push urgently at Wilson’s shoulder.  And when he opened his eyes, it was obvious he wasn’t the only one ready for Round Two.  House was thickly erect and straining, the luscious, viscous fluid already seeping from his tip, and he was making the same passionate, needy sounds he’d been making since the start of this.  From Wilson’s current position, all he had to do was stick out his tongue to swipe a little of that taste into his mouth – and as soon as he’d done it he was lost.  Getting _more_ was all he could think of, and as soon as his lips closed over House’s cock for the second time House made a noise between a groan and a sigh and began thrusting with eager abandon until Wilson was once more draining him of every drop.  

This time he had just enough strength to pull himself up until he was lying next to House instead of on top of him, then wrapped an arm around his chest and sank into sleep.  House was already snoring. 

*****

 

He could only be thankful for House’s habit of sticking the “Do Not Disturb” sign on their motel room door as soon as they came back from dinner every night, since they slept well past their usual time for getting up.  

They seemed to awaken at almost the same moment, Wilson still . . . well, _cuddled_ up against House in a way he _knew_ was going to provoke some kind of comment.  He quickly let go and sat up, running sticky hands through his spiky hair and blushing as some of the details started to come back to him.  Oh, god . . . House would probably – 

“Hmm.  We both wear our socks to bed for sex.  Kinky,” was House’s only immediate comment as he reached for the Vicodin bottle on the bedside table and dry-swallowed a tablet.  He sat up slowly, rubbing at his thigh and making a face as he looked down at his chest, then over at Wilson.  In a tone of pure outrage he said, “You _bit_ me!” 

“I – ” 

“You bit me, you gnawed on me, you slobbered all over me – you left _marks_ , you animal!  You chewed on my nipples until I probably won’t be able to wear a shirt today without putting bandaids over them first.  Why didn’t you _tell_ me that stuff was going to turn you into some kind of sex fiend?” 

“I –” 

“If it’s supposed to make me into some sort of medicine for you, let me tell you this is the _weirdest_ delivery system for a medication I’ve ever come across.” 

Wilson hung his head.  “We . . . I’m sorry, House.  I didn’t know it would be . . . like that.  We won’t do it again, okay?” 

“Why the hell not?” 

“You don’t . . . mind?” 

“Wilson,” House said in the overly-patient tone he used with people he thought were particularly dim bulbs, “last night I got two of the best blow jobs I’ve ever had in my life, and literally all I had to do was lie there and take it.  According to you, this is supposed to happen again tonight, and every night for at least the next six months.  I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling great this morning.  Why in god’s name would I _not_ want to do it again?” 

Wilson smiled.  Now that he thought about it, he _was_ feeling just a little better.  “Every night,” he agreed.  “I promise not to skip a single dose.” 

“Good.  Now get out of my way, I want the first shower.” 

An hour later, they pulled out of the parking lot, on the way to the next night’s motel room. 

*****

 

The old man with the brown eyes watched the motorcycles disappear into the distance before turning to his companion.  “Was it worth it?” 

“Stupid question.  We’re _here_ , aren’t we?” 

“True.” 

The blue eyes twinkled.  “And you’re _still_ an animal in bed.”

 

 

 


End file.
